For Only You (Teenlock!/Johnlock)

Chapter 24: Addiction

John's P.O.V

It had taken two more pained nights in the dreary hospital, the hospital with its pristine white fucking tiled walls, before Sherlock was deemed fit enough to leave. But, because there always has to be a 'but', both Mycroft and I were growing increasingly worried as time passed. Sherlock seemed to be in a lot of pain for someone who was on the number of painkillers that he was consuming day by day, drugs constantly in his system to stop the 'stinging of knives' in his back. Nevertheless, we were all in Sherlock's home, none of us willing to face schooling so soon after Molly's disappearance, Sherlock's burns; the place held its own personal hell for us all.

Even though things looked like they were getting better on the surface, Sherlock was changing, becoming more like the callous boy that I had seen him as when he still believed that people meant nothing, and it seemed as though it wouldn't be long before I was included in that section of people. Mycroft had raised hope where I couldn't find any, hence why I found myself lying next to Sherlock on his bed as he did endless bouts of reading- cases that Greg had given to him, apparently. I wasn't sure that it mattered; nothing would change the fact that we all the police had found nothing, no trail to lead to Molly. Was she dead? I could not believe such a thing to be true.

Every day, Sherlock had painkiller after painkiller, and still demanded more. He never really seemed to be in pain, only sometimes would true pain flicker past the nonchalant facade that he held. Of course, he always got his own way when we believed that he was in pain, though; he got the medicine that his body needed. Nor Mycroft or I could bear to see Sherlock's face when he was in pain, and I think that he knew it all-too well.

Naive, even Mycroft. We both were, because it was only four days- four days, fucking ninety-six hours after returning, and Sherlock had managed to get out of bed and disappear at the one time that tension was bursting at the concrete binding of the building that sheltered us.

"Did your mom and dad say anything about taking him out?" I asked Mycroft, with the sound of desperation clear, even to me. I had been hoping that they had popped out to get him some things to cheer him up or something, maybe to see another relative. I mean, Sherlock never went too far without some sort of note, a quick explanation that only a Holmes could have any hope of understanding.

It didn't matter; Mycroft's answer was still the same.

"No," Mycroft replied, slowly. "I have already mentioned the ambiguity of my brother's whereabouts... they assured me that they have not taken him anywhere, not after how clear you made it that he rest."

Panic was slowly, but damned surely, burning itself a hole in the core of my chest, rooting into the very valves and chambers of my heart as the worry grew deeper, festering within my soul. Considering that the same man, better described as 'monster', who had abused Sherlock sexually had also eroded layers and layers of his skin off in a classroom full of people, Sherlock should not be out on his own, especially so soon after leaving the hospital. He was like walking bait for any of the bastards that threatened him.

It was only Mycroft's controlled tone that kept me from rising into a state of utter despair, his steady hand on my shoulder that kept me from falling down into the pit that beckoned me each moment that Sherlock was still not beside me. It would be hard to find peace until I could rest my hand on her perfect chest and feel his heart beat under my own touch.

"We will search the local area. If he has decided that he need some space, he will not have gone far... in fact, I suggest that we look outside the front door before you panic any further," Mycroft decreed, the element of authority that only he would successfully weld whilst someone so dear to us was missing.

Soon, I was out on the cold streets, bewildered by where Sherlock could possibly want to go; the Holmes' house was a mansion, and there were plenty of places that he could get his space without actually leaving. Mycroft had already checked the gardens, and Sherlock was definitely not there; he didn't seem to be anywhere near the family home. There weren't many houses surrounding their own, and those of which did were clearly vacated by the elderly, or young, rich couples with booming businesses and far too much money.